Pineapple Torpedoes
by Red River Hog
Summary: I couldn't believe how shamefully the Enterprise writers abandoned Malcolm at that mess hall table in "E2". The poor boy looked so crushed sitting there, contemplating the unceremonious end of the Reed line. Well, I can't fix it for him, but maybe I can kiss it better. So here's my humble attempt at giving him some kind of resolution he can live with.


**Disclaimer: not my characters, although I do love them. If anyone sends me a check, I'll forward it to Paramount. My only compensation shall be the joy of having written it.**

 **Pineapple torpedoes**

"This seat is available…" Malcolm gestured to his table and produced what he hoped was an inviting smile, but the pretty blonde across the room waved him off with an apologetic shrug before joining a table of muscle-bound Macos.

With a sigh, he plopped back into his seat. So here he was, eating lunch alone, again. Today, tomorrow, and probably for the rest of his life. He stared morosely at his tea cup, turning it in his hands. A life that most likely was destined to play out just as pathetically as that of his counterpart on the other _Enterprise_ : no family, no children, no loved ones. No legacy. Nothing to be remembered by. All his life, he'd been a solitary man, absorbed in his work, and it had suited him. But having a family, someday, maybe – the thought had sat patiently in the back of his mind, and he had always assumed that when he was ready, someday, he would be free to make that choice. A choice that so far had stayed conveniently out of his way, like a juicy fruit hanging just above his head. But now - he hadn't thought about it this way before – but bloody hell, he was pushing forty, wasn't he? Suddenly, as of today, he was aware that the fruit was hanging a lot higher than he had thought. Out of reach, most likely.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to dispel the disquieting vision of Malcolm Reed, eternal lieutenant, growing pudgy and middle-aged in his tiny shipboard quarters, pining after unattainable female crew members, forever aligning the pattern buffers or the targeting scanners or some other damned bloody thing, and with nothing but his phase cannons to make love to. Well, that and masturbation. Wanking off in the shower for the next 40 years. Wonderful. He winced and raised his lunch tea to the empty chair opposite him. "Here's to Malcolm the First, last of the Noble Clan of Reed. May he rest in peace." Then he put his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands.

"May I join you, Lieutenant?"

Of all people. There she stood, bum and all, with a steaming bowl of split pea soup in one hand, a spoon in the other, and a clinical look on her gorgeous face.

"Sub-commander. Great. Uh…by all means". He gathered himself up, with some effort. She slipped into the chair opposite him.

"You look unwell, Lieutenant," she observed.

Yeah, well.

"You are not ill?"

"No, no," he waved his hand dismissively. "It's nothing…" He was going to leave it at that, but when her penetrating gaze on him did not waver, he stumbled on, "it's just, uh, Hoshi and Travis were here and…, well…" he trailed off, feeling stupid.

"Indeed. I believe the young ensigns and many other crewmembers are excited over their discovery of the other _Enterprise's_ data base."

"So I heard," he said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"Have you not checked the data base yourself, Lieutenant?"

He was beginning to feel annoyed at her probing. "Do you mind terribly, Sub-commander, if we change the subject?"

"Ah," she said after a pause, observing him poke his teaspoon around in his cup. "Your alter-ego on the other _Enterprise_ did not procreate?"

He sighed, defeated. "So it seems." For all her Vulcan denial of emotions T'Pol could be quite perceptive at spotting them in her human crewmates.

"And this distresses you?"

"Well, yes, Sub-commander, it does, rather", he said testily. Perceptive or not, what was the point in trying to explain to a Vulcan that failing to find love and, oh, quite possibly never getting shagged again could lead to a certain disenchantment?

"Do you know why he has failed to do so?"

"No, I don't. Does it matter?"

"There are an infinite number of possibilities."

Yes, the possibilities had occurred to him. Death was a real one. Lost, missing in action, abducted by Orions, another mutagenic virus turning him into a grub-gobbling ape. Even a small, well-placed injury to a certain body region could have effectively removed him from the gene pool, without too much blood loss (here, he briefly wondered whether he should wear a cup on away missions in the future). Whatever the reason, it all came to the same result: Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, winner of the 157th-or-however-manyeth Annual Darwin Award – or at least an honorable mention. He sighed heavily. T'Pol was watching.

"It is illogical to have an emotional reaction when one does not have sufficient information." She seemed to ponder something for a moment, then placed her spoon on the table. "I believe I know of a possible way to alleviate your troubles. If you will follow me."

With that, she stood up and strode across the mess hall. Malcolm, surprised at her sudden departure, found himself scrambling after her. He wondered if this was going to be like one of his fantasies, in which she manhandled him into the armory, ordered everyone else out, and then proceeded to rip off his jumpsuit and ravage him right there, flat on his back on top of the torpedo launcher. But he realized they were headed for the docking hatch instead. Of course – why didn't he think of that himself – she was going to shove him out the airlock. Brilliant. A perfectly logical solution.

Once, in a bourbon-soaked haze during some long, cold, bitter hours in a certain shuttlepod he had admitted to Trip that he'd had a bit of a crush on their first officer ever since space dock. With no illusions, of course, since T'Pol had never regarded him with anything more flattering than mild disinterest (except for that one memorable time when she had been, well, in rut, and had practically begged him to do the honors, but he had been in his EV suit and too much of a gentleman to seize the opportunity). Those painted-on suits she wore didn't help either. Malcolm had been wondering for three years why the Vulcans couldn't be bothered to issue her a proper uniform. Surely, disrupting the hormonal balance of her male human crew mates couldn't be conducive to the efficiency of ship operations. Then again, maybe that's what the Vulcans had in mind all along. He wouldn't put it past them, scheming little pointies that they were.

Trip, fueled by that same bourbon, had put it into engineering terms: "Forget about it, Loo-tenant. It'd be like puttin' two ice cubes next to one another in a petri dish and waitin' for some kinda combustion reaction to occur. Won' happen. What you need, mah friend", he had continued, poking a badly aimed finger into Malcolm's shoulder, "is some fearless, warm-hearted gal who strips down your hull plating and lays bare that throbbin' warp core I know you got in there somewhere." They had killed that bottle of bourbon and lived. Years later, Trip himself had climbed into the petri dish with the Vulcan ice cube, and they had never talked about Malcolm's love life again.

He was startled from his thoughts when they arrived at the forward portside airlock, the one that led to the other _Enterprise_ , which was docked alongside their own ship. He stepped through behind T'Pol, wondering if he should demand where the hell she thought they were going, but then decided that such childish impatience would only make him look foolish. They walked the corridors, so identical in layout, yet so different in character to those of their own ship. This _Enterprise_ was over a hundred years old and had been isolated from the shipyards and repair crews of Earth and Jupiter Station. Where she had bled, suffered damage or decay, her people had patched her up and re-painted her using whatever materials had been at their disposal. Malcolm was reminded of an old but much-loved patchwork coat his favorite Aunt Sherrie had worn proudly, to the spitting annoyance of her dry-as-goat-turds brother Stuart, who refused to be seen in public with his loopy older sister.

They had reached the door of one of the crew quarters, and T'Pol pressed the door chime. "It's open", came a quiet voice from inside.

He entered behind her. The room was pleasingly flooded with warm yellow light from many burning candles. The walls were hung with tapestries. A woman stood by the window, gazing at the stars, her back to them. When she turned slowly, he saw that she was a very old woman, with lank gray hair and skin like crumpled paper. Then he noticed the ears, and realization struck him like a direct hit from his phase cannon: This was T'Pol. Not a descendant – the original. The other T'Pol. He did a quick calculation in his head – she must be nearing 200 years of age.

She slowly advanced towards them. After a brief nod to her younger self, she stepped close to Malcolm, squinting up at him through her aged, clouded eyes. "It is agreeable to see you, Lieutenant. It has been a long time."

Malcolm found his voice. "T'Pol. I …ahm…I hope you are well."

"Passable." She gestured to the couch, "please sit. You were fond of tea, I remember?"

"Tea. Yes, that would be lovely," he said politely and sat on the small sofa by the coffee table. He threw a quick glance at the younger T'Pol, wondering if she would give some hint as to what they were doing here. But she just stood there, looking indifferent.

The elder T'Pol busied herself for a moment at the counter near the window, and returned with a carafe and several cups on a tray. After she poured a cup of tea and handed it to Malcolm, she turned to her younger self, "T'Pol. Will you join us as well?"

The younger T'Pol inclined her head in acknowledgement of the invitation, "No. I believe my presence would be….unhelpful. I will leave you." And so she did, turning around and walking out the door without a glance back.

The ancient woman's eyes followed her younger self to the door, and then she said in her dry, brittle voice, "You were quite observant, Lieutenant. I did have an awfully nice bum."

There was a clutter when Malcolm dropped his tea cup. He looked down at the liquid spreading on the rug and felt the blush rise in his face.

She watched him dispassionately. "I was married to Trip for 19 years. Things came up."

"I am sorry, T'Pol, that was clumsy of me. Let me…"

"No matter. It won't stain. Give me your cup, and I shall refill it". He did as told, and they sat in silence for a while, drinking their tea. To Malcolm's surprise, it was quite a spicy herbal variety, not the bland, colorless swill the younger T'Pol seemed to prefer. Malcolm felt a growing awkwardness in the presence of the ancient Vulcan. He figured that he should probably initiate a conversation, but he couldn't for the life of him think of anything to say. Just what in the bloody hell had the younger T'Pol been thinking, dumping him here and then making her escape?

After a while, the old lady broke the silence. "T'Pol tells me that many of your crew are becoming acquainted with their descendants on our _Enterprise_."

"Yes, uh…I suppose so," he muttered, a bit startled about the direction the conversation was about to take.

"People are understandably curious who they paired up with," she said, watching him across her tea cup.

When he didn't answer, and just sat there looking at the candles on the coffee table, she continued: "If you will permit me, I will make a guess as to why you are here."

"By all means," he managed.

"You are wondering why on a ship full of little Archers, Denobulans and pointed ears there is not a single person named Reed?"

He looked up at her, unable to find any words. Good lord, was he that obvious? Could all Vulcans look right through him, or had there been some silent Vulcan mumbo-jumbo telepathy between the two T'Pols? Still, so far, he was relieved she was doing most of the talking. If his own T'Pol made him tongue-tied, this fiercer, all-knowing version of her was downright petrifying. Vulcans had sensitive noses, didn't they? He wondered if she could smell his anxiety.

He lowered his head again. There was no point in pretending, now. "Yes," he admitted. "It has given me some … disappointment."

"And why is that?"

"Yes, why indeed?" he huffed. He licked his lips, taking some time to find the words. "It's just that…to us humans, it's important to…to leave something of ourselves behind. A legacy. To be remembered."

She nodded. "These things are important to Vulcans as well, Lieutenant. Do you believe that you failed to…leave something of yourself behind?"

Malcolm sighed unhappily. "I checked your data base, T'Pol. There is no mention that I…that your Lieutenant Reed ever married, or had any children at all."

T'Pol nodded thoughtfully. "That is true, I remember well. He neither married nor had children. Of course, you must have guessed the probable reason yourself. You were not unintelligent, if I recall."

Malcolm smiled bitterly. _Because he was a stuck-up, insufferable git who couldn't get a date if he was the last man on the ship._ But all he said was, "I died."

"That was indeed the most likely scenario, given your self-sacrificing tendencies."

He looked up at her. "Tell me how it happened, T'Pol."

She regarded him solemnly for a moment. Then she rose from her seat to pour him more tea. After reseating herself, she continued. "It happened because you were doing what you always did. Laying down fire, covering our retreat. They had agreed to let us gather supplies on their planet. But when they saw our technology, they decided they wanted it, and they attacked. You held them with your phase pistol, until we were all safely on the shuttle. Then you made a run for it. They got you square in the back just as you jumped in. By the time we reached orbit, you had expired."

So there it was. Expired. Just like that. Snuffed out like one of these candles. He'd always known a quick death was a likely outcome of his duties on Enterprise, but to hear it described so dispassionately….he watched the flicker of T'Pol's candles on the wall and felt his shoulders sink as if under a heavy weight.

"We had a party for you in the armory," T'Pol continued. "People wept and drank wine. Trip got very drunk. Then we launched you out the port tube in one of your beloved torpedoes. Trip wanted to leave the charges in and blow you up in space. He thought you might have liked going out in a proper explosion."

Malcolm smiled at his hands. Good ol' Trip.

"But Jonathan wouldn't have it. For reasons unknown to the rest of us, he thought you would have preferred a burial at sea. So we found you some uninhabited planet and pointed you at the ocean. You orbited once or twice, then you went down. We watched you go from the observation lounge."

They sat in silence for a while. A hero's death, then – not so bad after all. Certainly better than all the other gruesome possibilities he had conjured up, including dying old and forgotten in his quarters. He was a warrior, and he could accept this. Still – he felt himself heavy with regret for all of that other Malcolm's lost years, lost loves, lost opportunities. All those fruits never picked. He may have died a hero, but he knew with crushing certainty he had also died lonely, so very lonely. He thought of himself, all alone at the bottom of some alien ocean. Solitary in eternity as he had been in life. How odd, he thought, to be mourning one's own death.

"Do not grieve, Lieutenant," she said, watching him. "It was inevitable. Death is only ever around the corner for any of us. It doesn't matter if we live forty years or four hundred. In the face of eternity it is all just a wink. What matters is that we live well, and that we make a contribution. Do not believe that you left no legacy, only because you had no children. In death, you gave life to the rest of us. You sent us on our way. It was a good death, one even a Klingon would be proud of."

Malcolm glanced up at her, smiling a bit. "That's an unexpected sentiment, coming from a Vulcan."

She shrugged, and for a second it made her look almost human. "When one lives long enough, one picks up a few new ideas."

"I take it that Vulcans don't have a Stovokor?"

"We do not. Although some of us would say it is illogical to deny the possibility of something for which we have no data." She placed her empty cup on the table "I'll find out soon enough."

She rose from her seat and gestured to Malcolm to do the same. "Leave now, Lieutenant. I must rest."

He stood, and she escorted him to her door.

"Do me one last favor, Mr. Reed."

He turned to her. "Anything."

"Go to the mess hall. Ours, not yours. Sit in the far corner, by the window. Where you always sit when you want to be alone. Drink another cup of tea. Enjoy the view."

He blinked at her.

"Just do so," she said.

He nodded slowly. "I will. I thank you, T'Pol. You have…helped me." He awkwardly split his hand. "Uh…Live long and prosper."

"Indeed, I have done both. Now go."

Wondering what else besides tea might await him there, Malcolm left and turned towards the mess hall.

It was the end of lunch hour, and he met the last group of crewmen at the mess hall door, filing out on their way back to work. They nodded to him politely as they passed, and one or two took a double take as if they recognized him somehow, but he figured they were just surprised to see a member of the other crew going to their mess hall. Malcolm took a left turn after the door and sure enough, there was the drink dispenser, next to a rack of non-matching cups of all sizes. It looked rigged and patched together like many things on this ship, as if it had been repaired, upgraded and flattered back to life dozens of times over the years. On his own ship, the drink dispenser in the mess hall was a pillar of crew morale. If it ever broke down, there was likely to be some sort of a mutiny, and so he was not surprised that this humble device had received so much desperate care in over a century of love and use.

The dispenser gurgled and spluttered a bit as it poured his black tea. He turned, scanning the empty mess hall for his destination: the table in the far corner by the window, next to the bulkhead. And there it was – but his eyes were immediately drawn to the bulkhead behind it. It stretched the length of the mess hall, making up its far wall - and its entire surface was adorned with hundreds of pictures. He approached and marveled at the display. Photos mostly, but some drawings and written documents as well, crammed close together, all sizes, some framed, some simply tacked to the wall.

Intrigued, he absently set his cup on the corner table, near the window. He stepped closer to the wall. Photos of crewmen and officers, some in uniform, some at work or play; family photos with children, grinning couples holding babies. This was a chronicle, he realized, a family history of this ship. Hundreds of faces, people who had lived and died and suffered and hoped and worked this ship and kept her going. Now they were watching out silently over their current generation of descendants as they sat down in the mess hall for lunch or dinner or a game of chess.

His tea forgotten, Malcolm moved slowly from left to right along the wall, and as he did so he became aware that he was going into the past, until the photos began to look more faded and dog-eared. Many of the older ones had been preserved behind glass to shield them from the years. Moving down the years, he began to recognize familiar faces, in their old age at first, growing younger as his eyes flicked from frame to frame.

There was Phlox, biblical in age, doing some sort of weird puffer-fish thing with his face, to the delight of a dozen or so youngsters of varying ages, most of whom sported some version of the Denobulan ridges and stripes.

And here a picture of a grey-haired Archer and Trip, standing side-by-side in button-down shirts, both looking healthy and amused. Next to Archer sat a huge dog with giant hanging ears and sloppy jowls, sporting a familiar tri-colored coat. Apparently, even Porthos had found himself some hefty alien babe and done his duty. _Reed, you've been outperformed by a beagle_ , Malcolm thought as he shook his head in wonder.

And Hoshi, lovely Hoshi. There she was, elderly and graceful, in front of a class of children. Teaching languages again. When they had started from earth, she had been so young, so out of place, so terrified. During that first mission, Malcolm hadn't thought she'd last another month. And then, with each consecutive challenge, she had gained in poise and strength. From his station across the bridge, he had quietly watched her transformation into a first-rate officer, and in his private ways he had been as proud of her as if she had been his own little sister.

He had almost reached the end of the wall now. These were photos of the people he worked with as he knew them on his own ship – younger, in the prime of their lives. There were Hess and Rostov, waving down from the top of the warp core. Liz Cutler sitting cross-legged on a biobed, cuddling one of Phox' slimy monstrosities to her bosom and looking utterly delighted about it. Travis, hanging upside down in the sweet spot like some oversized fruit bat.

And here, finally, was a picture of the armory: but oddly, it was unusually crowded in there; people were standing around, holding wine glasses and beer bottles. Along the edge of the photo was visible a corner of a buffet layout, decked out with food. There was Archer, standing with Travis and Hoshi, all holding plates and drinks, looking somewhat solemn. Malcolm frowned at this breach of protocol. A party in his armory? Food on the launch console? These things belonged in the mess hall. Apparently, discipline had gone to all hell once they had been flung into the past. And then, far in the background of the photo, he spotted what appeared to be a large picture pinned to the doors of the phase pistol lockers. It was sporting – he had to squint a bit to make it out – no, this couldn't be right: his own foolish face? They had hung a poster of him in the armory?! – bloody bollocking hell, he realized with a sudden wave of queasiness, but he was looking at a scene from his own wake.

He stepped back from the wall and took a moment to compose himself. Surely, there was something very wrong about looking at pictures of one's own funeral. It was like watching a warp core breach in slow motion. He knew he shouldn't, but he found he couldn't look away now.

The next framed picture was a close-up of the pistol lockers with his photo on it. He would have thought that on the solemn occasion of his funeral they would have chosen an official Starfleet portrait of him, looking the serious British officer, all pink and proper and unsmiling in his uniform. Apparently not. This poster, blown up to nearly life size, had caught him at a rare moment of leisure. He was standing planet-side, green fields in the background. Of all things, he was holding the Captain's water polo ball in his hands and on his face was the goofiest shit-eating grin he'd never believed he was capable of, if he hadn't seen it right there on his own mug. Appallingly, there were grass stains on his shirt and mud on his cheek. And was that a twig in his hair? Somewhat blurry in the distance, he could make out what appeared to be a makeshift volleyball net strung between two trees, and several crewmen wild at play.

All around the poster people had tacked hand-written notes to the phase pistol lockers, small slips of paper and cards with expressions of grief, gratitude and farewell. Most of them were the sort of cheesy things people blab out when they don't know what else to say, but there was feeling in them nonetheless: "We will miss you, Sir. Godspeed", "We'll take good care of your phase cannons", "Enterprise won't be the same without you", and so on. But one note drew his eye: it contained an intricate drawing of a single rose, skillfully rendered in pencil by a talented hand, and underneath in careful handwriting it said simply:

 _"An English rose for Lieutenant Reed."_

He leaned in a bit more and squinted at that rose. It could just be a printout, of course, something this person had found in the data base and had hastily written on. But he didn't think so – it was hard to tell from a photo, but he was sure it was an original drawing. Rendered from the model of a real rose perhaps. Maybe one from the hydroponics bay. Clearly, the artist had spent a lot of time and care on this work. You could see every tiny vein in the petals, little blinks of reflected light on the smooth stem, a couple of thorns – and there, a dew drop hanging off the edge of a petal like a single tear …. _Whoa, Reed_ – he pulled himself up, admonishing himself – _get off it, you sentimental wanker. Get a grip. It means nothing, nothing at all._

But still, Malcolm had to swallow a lump in his throat as he stepped away from this last photo. Occasionally, after a particularly sphincter-clenching mission or his latest escape from sickbay, he would lie awake on his bunk at night wondering if anybody might actually miss him if he had popped off that day. He was well aware of his reputation as a demanding and frequently curt supervisor who inspired terror in the young crewmen under his command. So no, they wouldn't miss him. They'd probably be relieved to be rid of that little pissant of a CO, he'd figure. But then he immediately squashed the foolish disappointment that sprung up at this realization by reminding himself that it didn't matter one bit if they liked him or not. What mattered was that they were the sharpest, best-trained security force in Starfleet. That's what would keep _Enterprise_ safe. That's what he was here for, after all: to keep everyone safe, not to be Mr. Sodding Popularity.

So he would have been surprised if anyone had even shown up at his send-off, unless expressly ordered by the Captain. Half an hour standing around in their dress uniforms, trying hard not to scratch under those itchy collars, a few solemn words from the Captain, then out the tube with the limey little shit and good riddance. Back to work, everyone.

And yet. Here, in a couple of faded old photos, was evidence of an armory filled with grief, memories, food, friends and gratitude.

There was one more surprise. A wooden frame next to the photos of the armory held a large card of sorts on which several lines of text had been carefully printed by hand. What was this now? Malcolm leaned in once more and read with growing incredulity:

 **Come join us in celebration!**

Today, the armory crew is celebrating the life of Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, Enterprise's original armory officer.

One hundred years ago today, Lieutenant Reed died when he protected his captain and crew mates from attack. We shall always remember.

Join us for a commemorative banquet in the mess hall at 1900 hrs, followed by a showing of _"Skyfall"_.

 _(Armory legend has it that Lieutenant Reed loved Bond movies in which things blow up)_

 _Dear Lieutenant Reed, we, the armory crew of Enterprise, continue to do our best to maintain the armory according to your legendarily exacting standards._

 _We hope you would be proud of us, sir. This day is for you._

 **The Menu**

 **Appetizer** :

Baked Bean Blast-off. A spicy salad not for the faint of heart

 _(Open flames not permitted)_

 **Main Course** :

Stargazey Pie Upgrade. An old English classic enhanced with Denobulan mudpuppies and Chef's special polarized plasma sauce

 _(Courage now, you've seen weirder things!)_

 **And for those brave enough to stay for dessert:**

Pineapple Torpedo with vanilla ice coolant and hot chocolate overload

 _(Or you could just have some Spotted Dick instead)_

Served with your choice of warm ale, cold beer, or Klingon blood wine.

 **Hosted by the armory crew of Enterprise NX-01, Dec 8, 2139**

At the bottom of this extraordinarily strange and fantastic menu was a group shot of the armory crew. They were arranged around the torpedo launchers, some standing, some sitting astride the torpedoes as if on a horse, hoisting phase rifles, trying to look like people you don't want to mess with. He found himself smiling at this display of bravado - although, naturally, he would never permit such blasphemy in _his_ armory. Young people, all of them, not a one over thirty-five. None of them would have known him personally, and naturally, none of them had ever been to England - yet…here they were, throwing a party for him a century after his death, spiked with every silly British cliché they had found in the data base. Bond and stargazey pie. Warm ale and spotted dick. And pineapple torpedoes, indeed.

He felt weak suddenly, his legs wobbly, and he stumbled back to the table where he sat, holding on to his tea cup. A tumble of feelings swept through him. Over the lingering sadness and grief washed a great wave of warmth towards his crew mates - no, his friends - on Enterprise. All the things he craved – closeness, belonging, affection, friendship, maybe even love ( _the rose …who had drawn that rose,_ he wondered?) – in a way, maybe he already had these things. Maybe he'd had them all along, all around him, even now - but under the surface, just out of sight. Too many things remained unexpressed among people who mattered to one another, and Malcolm himself, he knew painfully well, was the worst offender in that regard.

He took a deep breath and glanced at the wall chronometer – good grief, his lunch break ended 15 minutes ago. He'd be late for his shift for the first time in…oh hell, possibly for the first time ever.

It took almost a physical effort to rise from the table and to tear himself away from that other Malcolm, in whose life he had wandered around for the last half hour. That man, he reminded himself forcefully as he dropped his cold tea in the dispenser, was not him – that was a different man, someone who had lived and died over a century ago, had made his mark, done his duty, played volleyball on some green planet, had been grieved and remembered and had inspired at least one lovely work of art and one questionable dessert creation. A man could do worse, really.

Enough of this self-indulgence. His own life was in front of him, and regarding his future, nothing had been written. With a last mental salute to his counterpart from the past, he stepped through the airlock back into his own _Enterprise._ He had phase cannons to align, torpedoes to upgrade and subordinates to terrorize. He grinned to himself at that last thought. Oh, he supposed he could try to ease up a bit on the poor kids. They had worked their tails off during these weeks of desperate repairs, and they deserved a few kind words from their armory chief. In fact, he made a resolution right there: tonight, after shift, he'd invite them for some drinks to the observation lounge. He had hidden away a small case of beer in his quarters, saved for a special day, and this was as special a day as any. He would listen to them talk about their families, their passions, things that mattered to them. He knew so little about any of them. Maybe he'd make some subtle inquiries if someone among them enjoyed a hobby of drawing. Start a conversation about art - who knows, that classical education might yet come in handy for something other than needling Commander Tucker.

That fruit hanging above his head might not be so out of reach after all. It was up to him, he realized, to look up and grab it. And who knew, maybe somewhere out there in the cold of space there was a fearless, warm-hearted lass who wouldn't mind rolling in the grass with him.

The End :)


End file.
